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ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


Japanese  Prints 


By  John  Gould  Fletcher 

Japanese  Prints 
Goblins  and  Pagodas 
Irradiations:  Sand  and  Spray 


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Japanese  Prints 

By 

John  Gould  Fletcher 


With   Illustrations   By 

Dorothy  Pulis  Lathrop 


Boston 

The  Four  Seas  Company 
1918 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
The  Four  Seas  Company 


959 


The  Four  Seas  Press 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


To  My  Wife 

Granted  this  dew-drop  world  be  but  a  dew-drop  world, 
This  granted,  yet  — 


387512 


The  True  Conqueror 55 

Spring    Love 56 

The  Endless  Lament 57 

Toyonobu.     Exile's    Return 58 

Wind   and    Chrysanthemum 59 

The  Endless   Pilgrimage 60 

PART  III. 

The    Clouds 63 

Two  Ladies  Contrasted 64 

A  Night  Festival 65 

Distant    Coasts 66 

On  the  Banks  of  the  Sumida 67 

Yoshi wara  Festival 68 

Sharaku    Dreams 69 

A  Life. . .. 70 

Dead  Thoughts 71 

A    Comparison 72 

Mutability     73 

Despair    74 

The   Lonely   Grave 75 

PART   IV. 

Evening    Sky 79 

City    Lights 80 

Fugitive   Beauty 81 

Silver    Jars 82 

Evening    Rain 83 

Toy-Boxes    84 

Moods    85 

Grass    86 

A  Landscape   87 

Terror    88 

Mid-Summer   Dusk 89 

Evening  Bell  from  a  Distant  Temple 90 

A  Thought 91 

The    Stars 92 

Japan     93 

Leaves  94 


List  of  Illustrations 


"Of  what  is  she  dreaming? 
Of  long  nights  lit  with  orange  lanterns, 
Of  wine-cups  and  compliments  and  kisses 

of   the  two-sword  men." Frontispiece 

HEADPIECE— PART   I iQ 

TAILPIECE — PART  1 37 

HEADPIECE— PART    II 39 

''Out  of  the  rings  and  the  bubbles, 
The  curls  and  the  swirls  of  the  water, 
Out  of  the  crystalline  shower  of  drops  shattered  in  play, 
Her  body  and  her  thoughts  arose." 46 

"The  cranes  have  come  back  to  the  temple, 
The  winds  are  flapping  the  flags   about, 
Through  a  flute  of  reeds 
I  will  blow  a  song." 58 

TAILPIECE— PART    II ' 60 

HEADPIECE — PART   III 61 

"Then  in  her  heart  they  grew, 
The   snows   of   changeless   winter, 
Stirred  by  the  bitter  winds  of  unsatisfied  desire." 70 

TAILPIECE— PART    III 75 

HEADPIECE — PART    IV .'77 

HEADPIECE — PART    IV 94 

"The  green  and  violet  peacocks 
Through  the  golden  dusk 
Stately,  nostalgically, 
Parade."    .  ..Endleaf 


Preface 

A  the  earliest  period  concerning  which  we  have 
any  accurate  information,  about  the  sixth 
century  A.  D.,  Japanese  poetry  already  con 
tained  the  germ  of  its  later  development. 
The  poems  of  this  early  date  were  composed  of  a  first 
line  of  five  syllables,  followed  by  a  second  of  seven, 
followed  by  a  third  of  five,  and  so  on,  always  ending 
with  a  line  of  seven  syllables  followed  by  another  of 
equal  number.  Thus  the  whole  poem,  of  whatever 
length  (a  poem  of  as  many  as  forty-nine  lines  was 
scarce,  even  at  that  day)  always  was  composed  of  an 
odd  number  of  lines,  alternating  in  length  of  syllables 
from  five  to  seven,  until  the  close,  which  was  an  extra 
seven  syllable  line.  Other  rules  there  were  none. 
Rhyme,  quantity,  accent,  stress  were  disregarded. 
Two  vowels  together  must  never  be  sounded  as  a 
diphthong,  and  a  long  vowel  counts  for  two  syllables, 
likewise  a  final  "n",  and  the  consonant  "m"  in  some 
cases. 

This  method  of  writing  poetry  may  seem  to  the 
reader  to  suffer  from  serious  disadvantages.  In  reali 
ty  this  was  not  the  case.  Contrast  it  for  a  moment 
with  the  undignified  welter  of  undigested  and  ex  parte 

[11] 


Japanese  Prints 


theories  which  academic  prosodists  have  tried  for 
three  hundred  years  to  foist  upon  English  verse,  and 
it  will  be  seen  that  the  simple  Japanese  rule  has  the 
merit  of  dignity.  The  only  part  of  it  that  we  Occi 
dentals  could  not  accept  perhaps,  with  advantage  to 
ourselves,  is  the  peculiarly  Oriental  insistence  on  an 
odd  number  of  syllables  for  every  line  and  an  odd 
number  of  lines  to  every  poem.  To  the  Western 
mind,  odd  numbers  sound  incomplete.  But  to  the 
Chinese  (and  Japanese  art  is  mainly  a  highly -special 
ized  expression  of  Chinese  thought),  the  odd  numbers 
are  masculine  and  hence  heavenly;  the  even  numbers 
feminine  and  hence  earthy.  This  idea  in  itself,  the 
antiquity  of  which  no  man  can  tell,  deserves  no  less 
than  a  treatise  be  written  on  it.  But  the  place  for 
that  treatise  is  not  here. 

To  return  to  our  earliest  Japanese  form.  Sooner 
or  later  this  crystallized  into  what  is  called  a  tanka 
or  short  ode.  This  was  always  five  lines  in  length, 
constructed  syllabically  5,  7,  5,  7,  7,  or  thirty-one 
syllables  in  all.  Innumerable  numbers  of  these  tanka 
were  written.  Gradually,  during  the  feudal  period, 
improvising  verses  became  a  pastime  in  court  circles. 
Some  one  would  utter  the  first  three  lines  of  a  tanka 
and  some  one  else  would  cap  the  composition  by  add 
ing  the  last  two.  This  division  persisted.  The  first 
hemistich  which  was  composed  of  17  syllables  grew 
to  be  called  the  hokku,  the  second  or  finishing  hemi- 

[12] 


Preface 

stich  of  14  syllables  was  called  ageku.  Thus  was 
born  the  form  which  is  more  peculiarly  Japanese 
than  any  other,  and  which  only  they  have  been  able 
to  carry  to  perfection. 

Composing  hokku  might,  however,  have  remained 
a  mere  game  of  elaborate  literary  conceits  and  double 
meanings,  but  for  the  genius  of  one  man.  This  was 
the  great  Basho  (1644-1694)  who  may  be  called  cer 
tainly  the  greatest  epigrammatist  of  any  time.  Dur 
ing  a  life  of  extreme  and  voluntary  self-denial  and 
wandering,  Basho  contrived  to  obtain  over  a  thousand 
disciples,  and  to  found  a  school  of  hokku  writing 
which  has  persisted  down  to  the  present  day.  He 
reformed  the  hokku,  by  introducing  into  everything 
he  wrote  a  deep  spiritual  significance  underlying  the 
words.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  disregard  upon 
occasion  the  syllabic  rule,  and  to  add  extraneous  syl 
lables,  if  thereby  he  might  perfect  his  statement.  He 
set  his  face  sternly  against  impromptus,  poemes  d' oc 
casion,  and  the  like.  The  number  of  his  works  were 
not  large,  and  even  these  he  perpetually  sharpened 
and  polished.  His  influence  persisted  for  long  after 
his  death.  A  disciple  and  priest  of  Zen  Buddhism 
himself,  his  work  is  permeated  with  the  feeling  of  that 
doctrine. 

Zen  Buddhism,  as  Basho  practised  it,  may  be 
called  religion  under  the  forms  of  nature.  Every 
thing  on  earth,  from  the  clouds  in  the  sky  to  the 

[13] 


Japanese  Prints 

pebble  by  the  roadside,  has  some  spiritual  or  ethical 
significance  for  us.     Blake's  words  describe  the  aim 
of  the  Zen  Buddhist  as  well  as  any  one 's : 
"To  see  a  World  in  a  grain  of  sand, 
And  a  Heaven  in  a  wild  flower; 

Hold  infinity  in  the  palm  of  your  hand, 
And  Eternity  in  an  hour. ' ' 

Basho  would  have  subscribed  to  this  as  the  sole  rule 
of  poetry  and  imagination.  The  only  difference  be 
tween  the  Western  and  the  Eastern  mystic  is  that 
where  one  sees  the  world  in  the  grain  of  sand  and 
tells  you  all  about  it,  the  other  sees  and  lets  his  silence 
imply  that  he  knows  its  meaning.  Or  to  quote  Lao- 
tzu:  "Those  who  speak  do  not  know,  those  who 
know  do  not  speak."  It  must  always  be  understood 
that  there  is  an  implied  continuation  to  every  Jap-  \ 
anese  hokku.  The  concluding  hemistich,  whereby 
the  hokku  becomes  the  tanka,  is  existent  in  the  writer 's 
mind,  but  never  uttered. 

Let  us  take  an  example.    The  most  famous  hokku 
that  Basho  wrote,  might  be  literally  translated  thus: 
"An  old  pond 

And  the  sound  of  a  frog  leaping 

Into  the  water." 

This  means  nothing  to  the  Western  mind.  But  to  the 
Japanese  it  means  all  the  beauty  of  such  a  life  of 
retirement  and  contemplation  as  Basho  practised.  If 
we  permit  our  minds  to  supply  the  detail  Basho  de- 

[14] 


Preface 

liberately  omitted,  we  see  the  mouldering  temple  en 
closure,  the  sage  himself  in  meditation,  the  ancient 
piece  of  water,  and  the  sound  of  a  frog's  leap— pass 
ing  vanity — slipping  into  the  silence  of  eternity.  The 
poem  has  three  meanings.  First  it  is  a  statement  of 
fact.  Second,  it  is  an  emotion  deduced  from  that. 
Third,  it  is  a  sort  of  spiritual  allegory.  And  all  this 
Basho  has  given  us  in  his  seventeen  syllables. 

All  of  Basho 's  poems  have  these  three  meanings. 
Again  and  again  we,  get  a  sublime  suggestion  out  of 
some  quite  commonplace  natural  fact.     For  instance: 
"On  the  mountain-road 

There  is  no  flower  more  beautiful 

Than  the  wild  violet." 

The  wild  violet,  scentless,  growing  hidden  and  neg 
lected  among  the  rocks  of  the  mountain-road,  sug 
gested  to  Basho  the  life  of  the  Buddhist  hermit,  and 
thus  this  poem  becomes  an  exhortation  to  "shun  the 
world,  if  you  would  be  sublime." 

I  need  not  give  further  examples.  The  reader 
can  now  see  for  himself  what  the  main  object  of  the 
hokku  poetry  is,  and  what  it  achieved.  Its  object 
was  some  universalized  emotion  derived  from  a  nat 
ural  fact.  Its  achievement  was  the  expression  of  that 
emotion  in  the  fewest  possible  terms.  It  is  therefore 
necessary,  if  poetry  in  the  English  tongue  is  ever  to 
attain  again  to  the  vitality  and  strength  of  its  be 
ginnings,  that  we  sit  once  more  at  the  feet  of  the 

[15] 


Japanese  Prints 

Orient  and  learn  from  it  how  little  words  can  express, 
how  sparingly  they  should  be  used,  and  how  much  is 
contained  in  the  meanest  natural  object.  Shakespeare, 
who  could  close  a  scene  of  brooding  terror  with  the 
words:  "But  see,  the  morn  in  russet  mantle  clad, 
Walks  o'er  the  dew  of  yon  high  eastern  hill"  was 
nearer  to  the  oriental  spirit  than  we  are.  We  have 
lost  Shakespeare's  instinct  for  nature  and  for  fresh 
individual  vision,  and  we  are  unwilling  to  acquire  it 
through  self-discipline.  If  we  do  not  want  art  to  dis 
appear  under  the  froth  of  shallow  egotism,  we  must 
learn  the  lesson  Basho  can  teach  us. 

That  is  not  to  say,  that,  by  taking  the  letter  for 
the  spirit,  we  should  in  any  way  strive  to  imitate  the 
hokku  form.  Good  hokkus  cannot  be  written  in  Eng 
lish.  The  thing  we  have  to  follow  is  not  a  form,  but 
a  spirit.  Let  us  universalize  our  emotions  as  much 
as  possible,  let  us  become  impersonal  as  Shakespeare 
or  Basho  was.  Let  us  not  gush  about  our  fine  feelings. 
Let  us  admit  that  the  highest  and  noblest  feelings 
are  things  that  cannot  be  put  into  words.  Therefore 
let  us  conceal  them  behind  the  words  we  have  chosen. 
Our  definition  of  poetry  would  then  become  that  of 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson,  that  poetry  is  a  language 
which  tells  through  a  reaction  upon  our  emotional 
natures  something  which  cannot  be  put  into  words. 
Unless  we  set  ourselves  seriously  to  the  task  of  under 
standing  that  language  is  only  a  means  and  never  an 

[16] 


Preface 

end,  poetic  art  will  be  dead  in  fifty  years,  from  a  sur 
feit  "of  superficial  cleverness  and  devitalized  realism. 
In  the  poems  that  follow  I  have  taken  as  my  sub 
jects  certain  designs  of  the  so-called  Uki-oye  (or  Pass 
ing  World)  school.  These  prints,  made  and  produced 
for  purely  popular  consumption  by  artists  who,  what 
ever  their  genius,  were  despised  by  the  literati  of 
their  time,  share  at  least  one  characteristic  with  Jap 
anese  poetry,  which  is,  that  they  exalt  the  most  trivial 
and  commonplace  subjects  into  the  universal  signifi 
cance  of  works  of  art.  And  therefore  I  have  chosen 
them  to  illustrate  my  doctrine,  which  is  this :  that  one 
must  learn  to  do  well  small  things  before  doing  things 
great;  that  the  universe  is  just  as  much  in  the  shape 
of  a  hand  as  it  is  in  armies,  politics,  astronomy,  or 
the  exhortations  of  gospel-mongers;  that  style  and 
technique  rest  on  the  thing  conveyed  and  not  the 
means  of  conveyance ;  and  that  though  sentiment  is 
a  good  thing,  understanding  is  a  better.  As  for  the 
poems  themselves  they  are  in  some  cases  not  Japanese 
at  all,  but  all  illustrate  something  of  the  charm  I 
have  found  in  Japanese  poetry  and  art.  And  if  they 
induce  others  to  seek  that  charm  for  themselves,  my 
purpose  will  have  been  attained. 

JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER. 


[17] 


Part  I 


Lovers  Embracing 

Force  and  yielding  meet  together : 
An  attack  is  half  repulsed. 
Shafts  of  broken  sunlight  dissolving 
Convolutions  of  torpid  cloud. 


[21] 


A  Picnic  Under  the  Cherry  Trees 

The  boat  drifts  to  rest 

Under  the  outward  spraying  branches. 

There  is  faint  sound  of  quavering  strings, 

The  reedy  murmurs  of  a  flute, 

The  soft  sigh  of  the  wind  through  silken  garments; 

All  these  are  mingled 

With  the  breeze  that  drifts  away, 

Filled  with  thin  petals  of  cherry  blossom, 

Like  tinkling  laughter  dancing  away  in  sunlight. 


[22] 


Court  Lady  Standing  Under  Cherry  Tree 

She  is  an  iris, 

Dark  purple,  pale  rose, 

Under  the  gnarled  boughs 

That  shatter  their  stars  of  bloom. 

She  waves  delicately 

With  the  movement  of  the  tree. 

Of  what  is  she  dreaming? 

Of  long  nights  lit  with  orange  lanterns, 

Of  wine  cups  and  compliments  and  kisses  of  the 

two-sword  men. 

And  of  dawn  when  weary  sleepers 
Lie  outstretched  on  the  mats  of  the  palace, 
And  of  the  iris  stalk  that  is  broken  in  the  fountain. 


[23] 


Court  Lady  Standing  Under  a  Plum  Tree 

Autumn  winds  roll  through  the  dry  leaves 

On  her  garments; 

Autumn  birds  shiver 

Athwart  star-hung  skies. 

Under  the  blossoming  plum-tree, 

She  expresses  the  pilgrimage 

Of  grey  souls  passing, 

Athwart  love's  scarlet  maples 

To  the  ash-strewn  summit  of  death. 


[24] 


A  Beautiful  Woman 

Iris-amid-clouds 
Must  be  her  name. 

Tall  and  lonely  as  the  mountain-iris, 
Cold  and  distant. 

She  has  never  known  longing : 
Many  have  died  for  love  of  her. 


[25] 


A  Reading 

"And  the  prince  came  to  the  craggy  rock 

But  saw  only  hissing  waves 

So  he  rested  all  day  amid  them." 

He  listens  idly, 

He  is  content  with  her  voice. 

He  dreams  it  is  the  murmur 
Of  distant  wave-caps  breaking 
Upon  the  painted  screen. 


[26] 


An  Actor  as  a  Dancing  Girl 

The  peony  dancer 

Swirls  orange  folds  of  dusty  robes 

Through  the  summer. 

They  are  spotted  with  thunder  showers, 
Falling  upon  the  crimson  petals. 

Heavy  blooms 

Breaking  and  spilling  fiery  cups 

Drowsily. 


[27] 


Josan  No  Miya 

She  is,  a  fierce  kitten  leaping  in  sunlight 
Towards  the  swaying  boughs. 

She  is  a  gust  of  wind, 

Bending  in  parallel  curves  the  boughs  of  the  willow- 
tree. 


[28] 


An  Oiran  and  her  Kamuso 

Gilded  hummingbirds  are  whizzing 
Through  the  palace  garden, 
Deceived  by  the  jade  petals 
Of  the  Emperor's  jewel-trees. 


[29] 


Two  Ways  of  Love 

The  wind  half  blows  her  robes, 

That  subside 

Listlessly 

As  swaying  pines. 

The  wind  tosses  hers 

In  circles 

That  recoil  upon  themselves : 

How  should  I  love — as  the  swaying  or  tossing  wind? 


[30] 


Kurenai-ye  or  "Red  Picture" 

She  glances  expectantly 
Through  the  pine  avenue, 
To  the  cherry-tree  summit 
Where  her  lover  will  appear. 

Faint  rose  anticipation  colours  her, 

And  sunset; 

She  is  a  cherry-tree  that  has  taken  long  to  bloom. 


[31] 


A  Woman  Standing  by  a  Gate  with  an 
Umbrella 

Late  summer  changes  to  autumn: 
Chrysanthemums  are  scattered 
Behind  the  palings. 

Gold  and  vermilion 
The  afternoon. 

I  wait  here  dreaming  of  vermilion  sunsets : 

In  my  heart  is  a  half  fear  of  the  chill  autumn  rain. 


[32] 


Scene  from  a  Drama 

The  daimyo  and  the  courtesan 
Compliment  each  other. 

He  invites  her  to  walk  out  through  the  maples, 
She  half  refuses,  hiding  fear  in  her  heart. 

Far  in  the  shadow 

The  daimyo 's  attendant  waits, 

Nervously  fingering  his  sword. 


[33] 


A  Woman  in  Winter  Costume 

She  is  like  the  great  rains 

That  fall  over  the  earth  in  winter-time. 

Wave  on  wave  her  heavy  robes  collapse 
In  green  torrents 
Lashed  with  slaty  foam. 

Downward  the  sun  strikes  amid  them 

And  enkindles  a  lone  flower; 

A  violet  iris  standing  yet  in  seething  pools  of  grey. 


[34] 


A  Pedlar 

Gaily  he  offers 
Packets  of  merchandise. 

He  is  a  harlequin  of  illusions, 
His  nimble  features 
Skip  into  smiles,  like  rainbows, 
Cheating  the  villagers. 

But  in  his  heart  all  the  while  is  another  knowledge, 
The  sorrow  of  the  bleakness  of  the  long  wet  winter 
night. 


[35] 


Kiyonobu  and  Kiyomasu  Contrasted 

One  life  is  a  long  summer; 

Tall  hollyhocks  stand  proud  upon  its  paths; 

Little  yellow  waves  of  sunlight, 

Bring  scarlet  butterflies. 

Another  life  is  a  brief  autumn, 

Fierce  storm-rack  scrawled  with  lightning 

Passed  over  it 

Leaving  the  naked  bleeding  earth, 

Stabbed  with  the  swords  of  the  rain. 


[36] 


An  Actor 

He  plots  for  he  is  angry, 
He  sneers  for  he  is  bold. 

He  clinches  his  fist 

Like  a  twisted  snake; 

Coiling  itself,  preparing  to  raise  its  head, 

Above  the  long  grasses  of  the  plain. 


[37] 


Part  II 


Memory  and  Forgetting 

I  have  forgotten  how  many  times  he  kissed  me, 

But  I  cannot  forget 

A  swaying  branch — a  leaf  that  fell 

To  earth. 


[41] 


Pillar-Print,  Masonobu 

He  stands  irresolute 

Cloaking  the  light  of  his  lantern. 

Tonight  he  will  either  find  new  love  or  a  sword-thrust, 
But  his  soul  is  troubled  with  ghosts  of  old  regret. 

Like  vines  with  crimson  flowers 
They  climb 
Upwards 
Into  his  heart. 


[42] 


The  Young  Daimyo 

When  he  first  came  out  to  meet  me, 

He  had  just  been  girt  with  the  two  swords ; 

And  I  found  he  was  far  more  interested  in  the  glitter 
of  their  hilts, 

And  did  not  even  compare  my  kiss  to  a  cherry- 
blossom. 


[43] 


Masonubu  —  Early 

She  was  a  dream  of  moons,  of  fluttering  handker 
chiefs, 

Of  flying  leaves,  of  parasols, 
A  riddle  made  to  break  my  heart; 
The  lightest  impulse 

To  her  was  more  dear  than  the  deep-toned  temple  bell. 
She  fluttered  to  my  sword-hilt  an  instant, 
And  then  flew  away; 
But  who  will  spend  all  day  chasing  a  butterfly? 


[44] 


The  Beautiful  Geisha 

\*^Jr 

Swift  waves  hissing 
Under  the  moonlight; 
Tarnished  silver. 

Swaying  boats 
Under  the  moonlight, 
Gold  lacquered  prows. 

Is  it  a  vision 

Under  the  moonlight? 

No,  it  is  only 

A  beautiful  geisha  swaying  down  the  street. 


[45] 


A  Young  Girl 

Out  of  the  rings  and  the  bubbles, 

The  curls  and  the  swirls  of  the  water, 

Out  of  the  crystalline  shower  of  drops  shattered  in 

Play, 
Her  body  and  her  thoughts  arose. 

She  dreamed  of  some  lover 

To  whom  she  might  offer  her  body 

Fresh  and  cool  as  a  flower  born  in  the  rain. 


[46] 


The  Heavenly  Poetesses 

In  their  bark  of  bamboo  reeds 
The  heavenly  poetesses 
Float  across  the  sky. 

Poems  are  falling  from  them 

Swift  as  the  wind  that  shakes  the  lance-like  bamboo 

leaves ; 

The  stars  close  around  like  bubbles 
Stirred  by  the  silver  oars  of  poems  passing. 


[47] 


The  Old  Love  and  the  New 

Beware,  for  the  dying  vine  can  hold 
The  strongest  oak. 

Only  by  cutting  at  the  root 
Can  love  be  altered. 

Late  in  the  night 

A  rosy  glimmer  yet  defies  the  darkness. 

But  the  evening  is  growing  late, 

The  blinds  are  being  lowered ; 

She  who  held  your  heart  and  charmed  you 

Is  only  a  rosy  glimmer  of  flame  remembered. 


[48] 


Fugitive  Thoughts 

My  thoughts  are  sparrows  passing 

Through  one  great  wave  that  breaks 

In  bubbles  of  gold  on  a  black  motionless  rocK. 


\ 


|'49| 


Disappointment 

Rain  rattles  on  the  pavement, 
Puddles  stand  in  the  bluish  stones; 
Afar  in  the  Yoshiwara 
Is  she  who  holds  my  heart. 

Alas,  the  torn  lantern  of  my  hope 
Trembles  and  sputters  in  the  rain. 


[50] 


The  Traitor 

I  saw  him  pass  at  twilight; 
He  was  a  dark  cloud  travelling 
Over  palace  roofs 
With  one  claw  drooping. 

In  his  face  were  written  ages 

Of  patient  treachery 

And  the  knowledge  of  his  hour. 

One  dainty  thrust,  no  more 
Than  this,  he  needs. 


[51] 


The  Fop 

His  heart  is  like  a  wind 
Torn  between  cloud  and  butterfly; 
Whether  he  will  roll  passively  to  one, 
Or  chase  endlessly  the  other. 


[52] 


Changing  Love 

My  love  for  her  at  first  was  like  the  smoke  that  drifts 
Across  the  marshes 
From  burning  woods. 

But,  after  she  had  gone, 

It  was  like  the  lotus  that  lifts  up 

Its  heart  shaped  buds  from  the  dim  waters. 


[53] 


In  Exile 

My  heart  is  mournful  as  thunder  moving 

Through  distant  hills 

Late  on  a  long  still  night  of  autumn. 

My  heart  is  broken  and  mournful 

As  rain  heard  beating 

Far  off  in  the  distance 

While  earth  is  parched  more  near. 

On  my  heart  is  the  black  badge  of  exile ; 
I  droop  over  it, 
I  accept  its  shame. 


[54] 


The  True  Conqueror 

He  only  can  bow  to  men 

Lofty  as  a  god 

To  those  beneath  him, 

Who  has  taken  sins  and  sorrows 

And  whose  deathless  spirit  leaps 

Beneath  them  like  a  golden  carp  in  the  torrent. 


[55] 


Spring  Love 

Through  the  weak  spring  rains 
Two  lovers  walk  together, 
Holding  together  the  parasol. 

But  the  laughing  rains  of  spring 

Will  break  the  weak  green  shoots  of  their  love, 

His  will  grow  a  towering  stalk, 
Hers,  a  cowering  flower  under  it. 


[56] 


The  Endless  Lament 

Spring  rain  falls  through  the  cherry  blossom, 

In  long  blue  shafts 

On  grasses  strewn  with  delicate  stars. 

The  summer  rain  sifts  through  the  drooping  willow, 
Shatters  the  courtyard 
Leaving  grey  pools. 

The  autumn  rain  drives  through  the  maples 
Scarlet  threads  of  sorrow, 
Towards  the  snowy  earth. 

Would  that  the  rains  of  all  the  winters 
Might  wash  away  my  grief! 


[57] 


Toyonobu.    Exile's  Return 

The  cranes  have  come  back  to  the  temple, 
The  winds  are  flapping  the  flags  about, 
Through  a  flute  of  reeds 
I  will  blow  a  song. 

Let  my  song  sigh  as  the  breeze  through  the  crypto- 

merias, 

And  pause  like  long  flags  flapping, 
And  dart  and   flutter  aloft,  like  a  wind-bewildered 

crane. 


[58] 


Wind  and  Chrysanthemum 

. 
Chrysanthemums  bending 

Before  the  wind. 

Chrysanthemums  wavering 
In  the  black  choked  grasses. 

The  wind  frowns  at  them, 

He  tears  off  a  green  and  orange  stalk  of  broken 
chrysanthemum. 

The  chrysanthemums  spread  their  flattered  heads, 
And  scurry  off  before  the  wind. 


[59] 


The  Endless  Pilgrimage 

Storm-birds  of  autumn 
With  draggled  wings: 

Sleet-beaten,  wind-tattered,  snow-frozen, 
Stopping  in  sheer  weariness 
Between  the  gnarled  red  pine  trees 
Twisted  in  doubt  and  despair; 

Whence  do  you  come,  pilgrims, 

Over  what  snow  fields? 

To  what  southern  province 

Hidden  behind  dim  peaks,  would  you  go? 

"Too  long  were  the  telling 
Wherefore  we  set  out; 
And  where  we  will  find  rest 
Only  the  Gods  may  tell." 


[60] 

V- 


Part  III 


The  Clouds 

Although  there  was  no  sound  in  all  the  house, 

I  could  not  forbear  listening  for  the  cry  of  those  long 

white  rippling  waves 
Dragging  up  their  strength  to  break  on  the  sullen 

beach  of  the  sky. 


[63] 


Two  Ladies  Contrasted 

The  harmonies  of  the  robes  of  this  gay  lady 

Are  like  chants  within  a  temple  sweeping  outwards 

To  the  morn. 


But  I  prefer  the  song  of  the  wind  by  a  stream 
Where  a  shy  lily  half  hides  itself  in  the  grasses; 
To   the    night   of   clouds   and   stars   and   wine    and 

passion, 
In  a  palace  of  tesselated  restraint  and  splendor. 


[64] 


A  Night  Festival 

Sparrows  and  tame  magpies  chatter 

In  the  porticoes 

Lit  with  many  a  lantern. 

There  is  idle  song, 

Scandal  over  full  wine  cups, 

Sorrow  does  not  matter. 

Only  beyond  the  still  grey  shoji 

For  the  breadth  of  innumerable  countries, 

Is  the  sea  with  ships  asleep 

In  the  blue-black  starless  night. 


[65] 


Distant  Coasts 

A  squall  has  struck  the  sea  afar  off. 

You  can  feel  it  quiver 

Over  the  paper  parasol 

With  which  she  shields  her  face ; 

In  the  drawn-together  skirts  of  her  robes, 
As  she  turns  to  meet  it. 


[66] 


On  the  Banks  of  the  Sumida 

Windy  evening  of  autumn, 
By  the  grey-green  swirling  river, 
People  are  resting  like  still  boats 
Tugging  uneasily  at  their  cramped  chains. 

Some  are  moving  slowly 
Like  the  easy  winds: 

Brown-blue,  dull-green,  the  villages  in  the  distance 

Sleep  on  the  banks  of  the  river : 

The  waters  sullenly  clash  and  murmur. 

The  chatter  of  the  passersby, 

Is  dulled  beneath  the  grey  unquiet  sky. 


[67] 


Yoshiwara  Festival 
\ 

The  green  and  violet  peacocks 

With  golden  tails 

Parade. 

Beneath  the  fluttering  jangling  streamers 
They  walk 
Violet  and  gold. 

The  green  and  violet  peacocks 

Through  the.  golden  dusk 

Showered  upon  them  from  the  vine-hung  lanterns, 

Stately,  nostalgically, 

Parade. 


[68] 


Sharaku  Dreams 

I  will  scrawl  on  the  walls  of  the  night 
Faces. 

Leering,  sneering,  scowling,  threatening  faces; 

Weeping,  twisting,  yelling,  howling  faces; 

Faces  fixed  in  a  contortion  between  a  scream  and  a 

laugh, 
Meaningless  faces. 

I  will  cover  the  walls  of  night 
With  faces, 
Till  you  do  not  know 

If  these  faces  are  but  masks,  or  you  the  masks  for 
them. 

Faces  too  grotesque  for  laughter, 
Faces  too  shattered  by  pain  for  tears, 
Faces  of  such  ugliness 
That  the  ugliness  grows  beauty. 

They  will  haunt  you  morning,  evening, 
Burning,  burning,  ever  returning. 
Their  own  infamy  creating, 
Till  you  strike  at  life  and  hate  it, 
Burn  your  soul  up  so  in  hating. 

I  will  scrawl  on  the  walls  of  the  night 

Faces, 

Pitiless, 

Flaring, 

Staring. 

[69] 


A  Life 

Her  life  was  like  a  swiftly  rushing  stream 
Green  and  scarlet, 
Falling  into  darkness. 

The  seasons  passed  for  her, 

Like  pale  iris  wilting, 

Or  peonies  flying  to  ribbons  before  the  storm-gusts. 

The  sombre  pine-tops  waited  until  the  seasons  had 


Then  in  her  heart  they  grew 

The  snows  of  changeless  winter 

Stirred  by  the  bitter  winds  of  unsatisfied  desire. 


[70] 


Dead  Thoughts 

My  thoughts  are  an  autumn  breeze 

Lifting  and  hurrying 

Dry  rubbish  about  in  a  corner. 

My  thoughts  are  willow  branches 
Already  broken 
Motionless  at  twilight. 


171] 


A  Comparison 

My  beloved  is  like  blue  smoke  that  rises 

In  long  slow  planes, 

And  wavers 

Over  the  dark  paths  of  old  gardens  long  neglected. 


[72] 


Mutability 

The  wind  shakes  the  mists 

Making  them  quiver 

With  faint  drum-tones  of  thunder. 

Out  of  the  crane-haunted  mists  of  autumn, 
Blue  and  brown 
Rolls  the  moon. 

There  was  a  city  living  here  long  ago, 

Of  all  that  city 

There  is  only  one  stone  left  half -buried  in  the  marsh, 

With  characters  upon  it  which  no  one  now  can  read. 


[73] 


Despair 

Despair  hangs  in  the  broken  folds  of  my  garments; 

It  clogs  my  footsteps, 

Like  snow  in  the  cherry  bloom. 

In  my  heart  is  the  sorrow 

Of  years  like  red  leaves  buried  in  snow. 


[74] 


The  Lonely  Grave 

Pilgrims  will  ascend  the  road  in  early  summer, 
Passing  my  tombstone 
Mossy,  long  forgotten. 

Girls  will  laugh  and  scatter  cherry  petals, 
Sometimes  they  will  rest  in  the  twisted  pine-trees' 
shade. 

If  one  presses  her  warm  lips  to  this  tablet 
The  dust  of  my  body  will  feel  a  thrill,  deep  down  in 
the  silent  earth. 


Part  IV 


Evening  Sky 


The  sky  spreads  out  its  poor  array 

Of  tattered  flags, 

Saffron  and  rose 

Over  the  weary  huddle  of  housetops 

Smoking  their  evening  pipes  in  silence. 


v/ 


[79] 


City  Lights 

The  city  gleams  with  lights  this  evening 

Like  loud  and  yawning  laughter  from  red  lips. 


[80] 


Fugitive  Beauty 

As  the  fish  that  leaps  from  the  river, 

As  the  dropping  of  a  November  leaf  at  twilight, 

As  the  faint  flicker  of  lightning  down  the  southern 

sky, 

So  I  saw  beauty,  far  away. 


[81] 


Silver  Jars 

I  dreamed  I  caught  your  loveliness 
In  little  silver  jars : 
And  when  you  died  I  opened  them, 
And  there  was  only  soot  within. 


[82] 


Evening  Rain 

Rain  fell  so  softly,  in  the  evening, 

I  almost  thought  it  was  the  trees  that  were  talking. 


[83] 


Toy-Boxes 

Cities  are  the  toy -boxes 

Time  plays  with: 

And  there  are  often  many  doll-houses 

Of  which  the  dolls  are  lost. 


[84] 


Moods 

A  poet's  moods: 

Fluttering  butterflies  in  the  rain. 


[85] 


Grass 

Grass  moves  in  the  wind, 
My  soul  is  backwards  blown. 


[86] 


A  Landscape 


Land,  green-brown; 
Sea,  brown-grey; 
Island,  dull  peacock  blue; 
Sky,  stone-grey. 


[87] 


Terror 

Because  of  the  long  pallid  petals  of  white  chrysan- 

themums 

Waving  to  and  fro, 
I  dare  not  go. 


[88] 


Mid-Summer  Dusk 

Swallows  twittering  at  twilight: 

Waves  of  heat 

Churned  to  flames  by  the  sun. 


[89] 


Evening  Bell  from  a  Distant  Temple 

yS 

A  bell  in  the  fog 
Creeps  out  echoing  faintly 
The  pale  broad  flashes 
Of  vibrating  twilight, 
Faded  gold. 


[90] 


A  Thought 


A  piece  of  paper  ready  to  toss  in  the  fire, 
Blackened,  scrawled  with  fragments  of  an  incomplete 

song: 
My  soul. 


[91] 


The  Stars 

There  is  a  goddess  who  walks  shrouded  by  day: 
At  night  she  throws  her  blue  veil  over  the  earth. 
Men  only  see  her  naked  glory  through  the  little  holes 
in  the  veil. 


[92] 


Japan 

An  old  courtyard 

Hidden  away 

In  the  afternoon. 

Grey  walks, 

Mossy  stones, 

Copper  carp  swimming  lazily, 

And  beyond, 

A  faint  toneless  hissing  echo  of  rain 

That  tears  at  my  heart. 


[93] 


Leaves 

The  splaying  silhouette  of  horse-chestnut  leaves 
Against  the  tall  and  delicate,  patrician-tinged  sky 
Like  a  princess  in  blue  robes  behind  a  grille  of  bronze. 


u 


[94] 


An  edition  of  1000  copies  only,  of  which  975  copies  have  been 
printed  on\Olde  Style  paper,  and  25  copies  on  Japanese  Vellum, 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

i  LOAN  DEPT.  *  \  |1 


General  Library     . 
UoivTrsity  of  Caliform. 
Berkeley 


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(A9562slO)476B 


D.RL. 


YB  73840 


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BDD302DSMS 


